


Under the Full Moon

by eggoduck



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I did this instead of my homework, Suicide, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggoduck/pseuds/eggoduck
Summary: “What a beautiful night to die under the full moon.”I heard him open the window, make some scuffling sounds, and then there was silence for two seconds before the sound of something heavy hitting the pavement below. Someone screamed, four stories below.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Under the Full Moon

It was a chilly Tuesday evening when I invited my friend to have dinner with me at my home. The reason for this was that I had been feeling like my friend had been growing more distant lately, and I was hoping that I could get him to talk about his worries over a meal. He arrived five minutes after six, apologizing for his tardiness and presenting me a wrapped package and an envelope. I put these things aside for later and we both started on our meals.

About thirty minutes into the meal, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I noticed that the window was open, letting a cold draft into the tiny room. I glance outside at the ground, four stories below me, before closing the window with a sigh. It was almost wintertime, I noted. I returned to the dining table. During the brief moment I was gone, my friend had not touched his food at all, instead opting to stare at the painting on the wall blankly.

It was a painting of a woman sitting at a table and staring at a fruit bowl, with the light of a full moon casting everything in a silvery light. I think she looked sort of tired and world-weary. My cousin, who is an artist, had made me the painting for my housewarming party. When I asked her why she painted a woman staring at a bowl of fruit, she shrugged and answered, “I felt like it. I thought you might like it.”

The woman in the painting now bore an uncanny resemblance to my friend, both of them sitting in the dining room with a melancholic aura around them. I decided not to dwell on it any longer, sitting down at the table.

When my friend noticed that I was back, he didn’t say anything, only turning back to his food silently. This was very strange, for he usually would have made a joke or some other witty remark about the painting. But then again, his strange behavior was all the more incentive for me to find out what was wrong. I shook off the gut feeling telling me that something bad would happen. I only wanted to talk with him, after all. Nothing could go wrong, right?

After a long period of silence, where he didn’t say anything and I didn’t dare pry, he suddenly and abruptly said to me, “Was there a reason to invite me to your home? Did you just want to eat dinner with me?” And here he paused, narrowing his eyes. “Or did you have something you wanted?” He leaned back in his seat, adding “You could have just asked me, you know. No point in pretending that you just wanted to have dinner with me.” I was slightly shocked that he was able to guess my intentions, but since he was able to guess my purpose for the dinner, I decided to cut straight to the chase.

“I noticed that you had been acting strange lately, and I arranged this dinner in order to find out what was bugging you. I was going to be discreet, but it seems I’ve already been found out.” I leaned forward, staring into his eyes. “So tell me: is there something wrong? Can I do anything to help? Please tell me, I want to help you. You’re my friend, after all.”

I stopped, for he was staring back at me now with something I couldn’t quite discern, and I resisted the urge to squirm in my seat. After a minute or two of this silent staring, he said, “It’s nothing. Just the cold getting to me.” This seemed strange to me, but I decided to let it go.

He was preparing to leave, slipping on his shoes, before he suddenly asked me if I could let him use the restroom for a bit. I agreed. I took this time to inspect the presents that he had given him earlier. I opened the envelope first. All it said was “What a beautiful night to die under the full moon.”

I heard him open the window, make some scuffling sounds, and then silence for two seconds before there was the sound of something heavy hitting the pavement below. Someone screamed, four stories below.

I rushed to the bathroom, praying that he hadn’t locked the door. He hadn’t, and I barged into the room. A tiny part of my brain noticed that it was indeed a full moon that night. I saw his shoes on the floor, lined up neatly against the wall. I instantly knew what happened. It was a few minutes before I could muster up the courage to peer out the window.

Outside on the pavement below lay my friend’s body, the puddle of blood rapidly spreading, red against the grays and silvers of the moonlit night. Someone screamed again. I realized it was me.

I promise that everything I have just told you is the truth. Please believe me, Officer. Please believe in my innocence.


End file.
